


Simply, Fucking Irresistible

by sian1359



Category: JAG
Genre: Badass, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV First Person, Season/Series 08, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-06-18
Updated: 2003-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:44:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1804069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian1359/pseuds/sian1359
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dammit, AJ, if you take a swing at me, I swear I’ll fucking shoot you!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simply, Fucking Irresistible

**Author's Note:**

> More archiving of old fic.
> 
> First published in the Constricted by Plot 2003 Zine.
> 
> This story takes place during the Eight Season after Ice Queen, and ignores the last three episodes completely. Additionally, one of the plots in this year's zine was using the words Simply Irresistible -- obviously I chose the easy one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since the week had started out as a damn cliché, I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised to have it ending that way. Too much scotch, rain, guns and spies …

I had gotten the invitation to the reunion, considered it, but doubted I’d make the time to attend. With one war under way and another pending, more idiots were being charged with AWOL and desertion to add to all the normal and not so normal crap JAG needed to field. The same reasons I hadn’t followed through on my threats of retiring; despite feeling my age after being ejected from an F14 and almost buying it in my own backyard, it seemed cowardly to leave in the face of what the country was facing.

Too bad I hadn’t also rethought my ideas of proposing to Meredith ...

Nor did my own problems amount to shit given what the rest of my people had gone through over the last year. In some ways the capper of Singer’s death and Rabb’s involvement, then learning it had been Lindsey, both in killing Loren and in implicating Rabb, had been, well, not anti-climatic, for the situation was nothing to make light of. But it hadn’t exactly been unexpected. Singer and Rabb both had ways, albeit quite differently, of making enemies, and Lindsey had had reasons to hate me most of all. Surely a year that had seen a stolen Russian nuke, an audit of our operational practices, the War against terrorism, and a SecNav being brought down, would also have life-threatening injuries, a pregnancy, someone being arrested and someone being killed.

And someone breaking off a relationship ...

At least little had happened to Mac or Sturgis. Tiner had decided on Law School and Harriett was happy being pregnant again. Of course, Gunnery Sergeant Galindez was off only God and the CIA knew where. Although Manetti _had_ been the new SecNav’s watchdog, she’d been sent to investigate Lindsey’s lies of incompetence and impropriety after the audit, instead of just confirming them. Her boss was also showing a better understanding that results mattered as much as following guidelines than I’d ever expected from a former oversight Senator with no military service on his record.

It had been the new SecNav’s suggestion that I go ahead and take some leave after NCIS’ investigation into Singer’s murder. Doing so would not only show my support of my staff, that I could and did trust them to manage whatever new crisis might arise in my absence, but would further show _his_ support of me to the remaining political watchdogs. I still hadn’t considered the reunion to fill that leave, not at first, although the thought of heading to Europe to visit Francesca had been in the back of my mind. But that had been because I had wanted Meredith to meet my daughter. When Meredith said no to that along with everything else ... well spending a few days with the guys who’d once meant everything to me before meeting up with the gal who still did, seemed a damn fine way to get away from the stresses of JAG, DC, and my own actions.

Although there was no one left but myself from my original team, thirty-two of us were still alive from the combined Teams, and eighteen of us had made it to Greece. So had Tim Fawkes and Thomas Boone; both men had had extensive interactions with our missions and had become something of friends. To my further surprise, Brian Stewart had also shown up.

I’d known he was alive. But he’d never attended any of these sporadic gatherings after the first one once we were all stateside. Part of me had always figured I -- or rather, our ill-advised relationship -- had been the cause for his absenses. Nineteen year olds might experiment with their sexuality when they were in college, but not Navy men. And especially not SEALs. We couldn’t even blame it on the War and the horrific conditions over there, since the relationship had started in boot camp well before either of us arrived in Nam.

No, my _marriage_ had been my reaction to what I’d been doing over there, both in the War and with Brian.

I’d never regretted entering into either relationship; Marcella and I resulted in Francesca being born, and Brian and I had had three pretty intense years off and on together. I had ended both badly, however. And I’d been damn lucky that Brian had been the better man; in leaving the Navy well before I had, he could have had me sent to Leavenworth with few consequences to himself...

All of my liaisons with men after Brian had been basically meaningless beyond the sex, and discreet enough that there’d been no hint when I’d been nominated for my stars or as the Navy JAG.

Damn unfair that it was Brian in troubled now. I doubted any of our buddies saw untoward, but to my more familiar eye I saw the wasting beyond the muscle tone even better than my own. And although I was saddened for a number of reasons, I wasn’t really surprised when he quietly admitted to me during our last night of the reunion that he had HIV, and that his lover of many years had already died of AIDS.

I suppose it was that news as much as anything that had led me to join in the traditional last night of drinking far too long and far too much. In the end only Tim Fawkes and I were left standing, in part because we’d both recognized the stupidity in what we were doing and so had been taking things slower. Not that that had stopped either of us from getting drunk.

After finally being kicked out of the bar, we both decided it wasn’t worth going back to our rooms for anything other than gathering our bags and checking out; I still had Italy and Francesca to look forward to. Tim also had business in Italy and so we ended up flying over together on one of his company’s planes, our flight leaving at oh dark thirty that next morning.

I knew it wasn’t a good idea to keep drinking. His company was _The_ Company, and almost all of my dealings with the CIA had resulted in trouble even when I was in full control of my facilities. On the other hand, I suppose it was better done in front of his people than the military, after all who was better at keeping secrets than the goddamn Christians In Action as we’d called them back in the day? And better still, once I discovered that beside the two of us, we had only the pilot to witness our stupidity.

Privacy was just one of the benefits of traveling on the CIA’s dime. Normally my lot fell to standard commercial flights or military cargo planes, but I’d flown on an executive jet a time or two in my life, and even once on Air Force One. But this jet made the previous ones look and feel like a cargo plane themselves. The seat I found myself strapping into was more comfortable than the one in my office _and_ the custom built I’d installed on my boat.

It was one of six around a conference table that would be at home in any upscale corporate board room. State of the art electronic equipment took up most of the other space, although there were six more seat further aft, spaced apart and fully reclining for sleeping.

A mobile command center was my guess, and immediately I began to wonder just what business Tim needed oversee in Italy.

Nothing too immediate I guessed as Tim took a seat facing me after pointing out the selections in a wet bar that I suspected outclassed his own as well as those belonging to his DC society friends like Porter Webb and her son. As much as I wanted to help him finish the bottle of hundred year old scotch, I found myself switching to coffee after the first glass.

One of us needed to be able to walk once we arrived.

Nor did I need additional fuel for my melancholy thoughts. I’d always been more of a morose drunk than a happy one. So too, if I remembered correctly, was Tim. Men of our age, of our experiences, had a lifetime of regrets and missed chances that drinking invariably brought out.

Which is why I found myself speaking of Brian. But before I could reveal that my sadness over Brian’s fate was for far more than losing yet another friend, Tim dropped his own bombshell.

"Surprisingly, HIV is the one bullet I’ve managed to dodge myself."

Still too drunk to hide my shock, Tim only lifted up his glass of the damn fine scotch at my gasp and gave me a bittersweet smile. Along with a little gesture with the glass.

"To trust," he said before draining it.

I thought about taking the empty from him, but as he made no move to pour himself another shot I was realizing that his toast could mean I should trust that he knew when to stop. Or that I could trust that he was trusting me with his well-being as well as his secret.

Not that his being gay mattered. Even if I didn’t like cock as well as cunt, as far as I’m concerned, _Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell_ applies to everyone. I wasn’t about to tell his superiors -- or mine.

But I should tell him he wasn’t alone? Except would that make him think I was offering? Was I offering?

He didn’t make me figure that out; he had more secrets to reveal first.

"In some ways it’s easier for the younger fellows," he slurred. "Not as many turned eyebrows or broken bones. Being gay is all rather commonplace or trendy." The last was spoken with a touch of disgust, but his expression quickly become downcast again instead of bothered. "We expect too much of them."

I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I just nodded. Tim was much better at sounding that he wasn’t drunk than me, but he also said whatever he was thinking, even if they were unrelated.

Watching him run his finger around the rim, I was trying to decide if he was flirting. Were he one of those younger fellows, he’d pop that finger into his mouth -- or offered it to me to lick away the scotch ...

"Tim?" I finally began when nothing happened beyond him making the glass ring.

"I’m not sure when I’ll be able to forgive your Commander Rabb."

I blinked. What did Rabb have to do with being gay -- well, other than being a walking wet dream? Had he been _the_ poster boy for the Navy instead of just a poster boy, the majority of people with a copy of that poster wouldn’t be the ones we were supposed to recruit --

Rabb and Tim?

Hell, no! Not even if Rabb wasn’t the straightest son of a bitch I’d ever known.

Had they even met? Had Rabb done anything to help after Webb and I rescued Tim in Italy? He hadn’t been there at the airport when we got back --

"I suppose I wouldn’t be quite so angry if Rabb had bothered once to at least say I’m sorry," Tim interrupted my thoughts and brought me back to why I was having them in the first place.

"Or even just a damn thank you."

I was surprised, but if anyone could piss off someone he didn’t even know, that would be Harmon Rabb, Jr., ace lawyer, ace fighter jock -- ex fighter jock.

"His exile’s been Hell on Porter." Tim quickly slid a gaze just as intense as his tone from my face and went back to staring at his circling finger. "It’s been Hell for me too." A hitched breath and then Tim poured another two fingers full of scotch into the glass.

Watching his finger was making me a dizzy as trying to figure out what he was talking about. _His?_ So Rabb didn’t owe _Tim_ an apology? Then who? Porter? Did I know a Porter? Did Rabb? This was still about Rabb, right? Except he’d also said something about exile.

Tim couldn’t be talking about an exile for Rabb. Not that I hadn’t been tempted to arrange something like that once or twice. But I’d made sure to keep Rabb close to home since his run in with NCIS. Had made him acting JAG during my leave; and put Mac back on the bench as a judge --

Exile. Porter. Rabb. Hell. Tim.

Hell!

Man, I was drunk despite a third cup of coffee.

Yeah, I knew a Porter. DC society Dame, Porter Webb. Which meant the exile belonged to Clayton Webb, her son. Tim’s CIA protégé and my very own personal pain in the ass, even after I broke his nose in Russia.

And apparently the someone that Tim had non mentoring feelings for.

When had I last seen Webb? After the nuke and Afghanistan. Hadn’t he stopped by at least once to see Bud? I remembered being surprised at the gesture when Webb had recommended a personal trainer after Bud had only qualified for limited duty.

But after that? Recently and involving Rabb?

Oh, yeah. The Angel Shark hearings. A video tape had shown up. Crucial evidence -- classified evidence. An explanation for the families as to why the sub had gone down, why they’d never been told. The damn Russians. And CIA.

Webb acting, against type. Against the advice and commands of his superiors.

And now Tim was saying Rabb hadn’t even said thank you. I might not like Webb, but he’d come through for us about as often as he’d gotten my people in trouble and so the Commander and I were going to have words when I got back --

"I mean, Suriname, for God’s sake?" Tim sputtered to bring me back to his ranting. "Who the fuck has even heard of Paramaribo, Suriname, much less knows where it is?"

Shit, at the moment, I didn’t. All I knew is that we didn’t have a naval base there.

"Pruett might as well have forced Clayton’s resignation or just put a fucking bullet in the back of his head. The only thing to do down there is watch fucking wannabe Nazi’s stumble about in their walkers. And the goddamn drug trade. Which is not at all what Clayton should be involved in again, even if we didn’t have half the fucking world out to tear us down. Pruett isn’t even a fucking horse’s ass; he’s not even the shit that comes from the horse’s ass. Yeah, so the tape ended a few careers and shook up a few more, but that just proves we need more men like my boy out there, and instead Pruett sends away one of our best Middle East operatives--"

I could only watch in absolute amazement as Tim slugged back the scotch and then slammed the glass down on the table so hard that it would have broken had it not been as high quality as the scotch. I don’t’ remember ever seeing Tim this angry. Or hearing him swear like that; he didn’t even use fuck when he talked about sex!

"Don’t worry, AJ," Tim barked with sudden laughter. "Not only do I trust you to keep quiet about my personal life, but I have already made my opinion on Pruett’s actions against Clayton quite public within the Company. The worst the rat-bastard can do is force me into consulting. I was already supposed to retire after what happened on my last trip to Italy. But they need me. I know where too many of the bodies are hidden. At this point only George can pull my badge."

George Tennant or George W.? Given how long Tim had been in the game, I suppose it could be either. Must be nice not to have the entire fucking Congress as your bosses.

I didn’t want to think about Congress or presidents and instead tried to wrap my brain around Webb being sent to keep track of the drug trade in Suriname -- had to be in South America -- instead of tracking down al Qaeda. And because of something he’d done for us.

That Rabb and Turner -- that not even Mac hadn’t bothered to mention any of this to me.

Wait a minute. South America? Fuck.

Not only had Webb been exiled, but it seemed he was being sacrificed too. Even beyond his _charming_ personality while representing State, Webb had made a lot of enemies in South American amongst drug lords and politicians alike. Because of Mac, Roberts and Rabb’s involvement in bailing Webb out in Columbia some years back, a few of those enemies had extended their threats to my people.

While I was still JAG, the three of them wouldn’t be sent TAD anywhere near South fucking America.

"I could probably speak to the new SecNav," I offered with a cough that I hoped was more because I hadn’t actually said more than a word or two in over an hour instead of the thought of calling in a political favor for Clayton Webb. Not that I necessarily had enough clout with Secretary Sheffield to actually be granted a favor either, but even given their known relationship, what happened to Webb had to be eating Tim up.

"I appreciate it, AJ, but it’s better for us all if Clayton can come home on his own. It probably wouldn’t be back under Pruett, but a few other of the Directors wouldn’t be any happier to have him beholden to someone in the Navy, especially someone with your profile."

"Now wait a minute, Tim! Webb has asked me for any number of favors over the years. Dammit, he keeps involving my people in his reckless ops --"

If I hadn’t seen just how much Tim had been drinking over the last day, the expression he’d just given me --

But no, he was my friend. There’s no way in Hell he would have been playing me for the last six -- seven hours! A game like that was Webb’s trick. But then, _who_ had taught Webb?

I felt a growl begin in my throat, a tremor in my hands. Yes, I’d been JAG now for seven years, had been a lawyer for a Hell of a lot longer than I’d been in active duty, but I would always be a SEAL. And I’d be damned if I’d let some spook --

"I may no longer be in Clayton’s chain of command, AJ, but I assure you that I have read every End of Op report he’s filed. As well as been the shoulder he’s cried upon, although I have to say I haven’t actually seen Clayton cry since informing him and Porter of losing Neville.. "

I beat back my anger, at once disturbed and amazed that Tim didn’t even seem to notice it. But he was off in his own world, had paused in his explanation and had such open pain on his face now that I forgot all about my own suspicions. Of course Tim was my friend. No one exposed themselves like he was for anyone other than a friend.

And he had -- was -- exposed a Hell of a lot more than I’d given myself away. Right now he’d be the only one in danger, and how could that work into some kind of CIA game?

While Tim continued to relive memories no doubt he’d rather not, a few more pieces of a puzzle I’d never realized I’d been looking to complete fell into place.

Outside of rescuing Tim, all of my interactions with Clayton Webb had come from Webb’s interactions with Mac and Rabb, though I know he’d used Roberts a couple of times and Mac had mentioned that Gunny Galindez had been co-opted on a couple of CIA operations upon returning to field service instead of staying at JAG. Even when we’d been informed that Webb had been killed in one of his own damn ops a few of years ago and I’d sent Rabb and Roberts to Porter Webb to see if we could find out who’d killed him, I had only paid off-hand attention to the personal information the two had come back with. There’d been something about a piano and the Olympics, as well as the Webbs having a buttload of money. Something later had come up about Webb taking the time to ride regularly with his mother when not on assignment to State or the CIA, and that thing earlier about Webb escorting his mother to some event when Corporal Magida had decided taking hostages was the only way to get justice.

I had known in the back of my mind that Webb’s father was dead, but instead of really thinking about it, I had simply though privately agreed with the general consensus that Webb was something of a mama’s boy and never really gave it more thought.

But, dammit, I had known a Neville Webb back in Nam, had even known the man was CIA! Still I had never put _Neville_ Webb with _Clayton_ Webb. Or that, just like Rabb’s father, Webb Senior had left behind a wife and a young son when he hadn’t returned home from his service to his country.

I suddenly wanted very much to know if Rabb had made this connection before coming to Webb for the classified Angel Shark information.

And realized most of my buzx from drinking was rapidly disappearing in light of these revelations.

I would never credit guilt as a factor to motivate Clayton Webb in anything. But I was beginning to wonder if empathy might be, especially given how much assistance, albeit reluctantly, he’d given Rabb once the trail of Rabb Senior’s MIA status had led to Russia.

It wasn’t as if I didn’t know first hand that spooks could be friends ….

When I looked up from my own contemplation, Tim had a wry smile lifting his lips. One that I found myself having to echo.

If I’d been this slow back in Nam, I would have been one of the ones not coming home!

"You do realize that every time Clayton has come to you for your people -- and yes, even I’ll admit it’s been too often -- but every time save the one for me, he’s been doing his job."

I didn’t really need his next statements to hobble my token protest.

"And don’t you tell me you disagree with the necessity of that job, AJ." Tim snarled. "I am well aware of what is in your own service record, not to mention having been right alongside you the past few days while you were bragging about those good old days with the others. Unless all of those tales were a lie?"

I should have scowled anyway. Had it been anyone other than one of those from Nam -- or Tim -- I probably would have. But yes, I had done my share of black ops; the SEALs had been formed expressly to perform those black ops the Christians In Action couldn’t handle. And I had been one of the first volunteers.

"I might understand the necessity Tim," I tried to explain. "But I can’t appreciate his methods, and don’t at all like that he’s constantly involving my people. Something always ends up going wrong ..." I broke off, because again Tim has that look that tells me I’ve missed something.

"Jealous?" But before I could contest that, Tim continued.

"I know not all of his other ops go perfectly, but have you ever considered that there is a common factor in the missions you’re referring to other than Clayton? Namely, the involvement of _your_ people?"

"If they are the fault for the mission screw ups, then why is he always demanding their help?" I roared. Goddamn him for blaming Rabb and Mac!

"Webb’s missions with JAG almost always end up getting someone hurt and too often nearly _killed_ , Tim! At least when one of us goes to him the only person whose life is endangered -- and that’s a big maybe -- is the one we’re trying to get convicted or acquited."

That got an outright laugh from Tim, and again I got a feeling I wasn’t even looking at the same book as he was, much less the same page.

"You’ve undermined your argument, AJ. By your own statement, Clayton has only come to you and yours in matters of life and death, while your folks come to him for … favors. On that alone, I’d say the balance lies very much on Clayton’s side. Once you add in the personal things such as bringing your Colonel Mackenzie into JAG to help her uncle, Rabb’s search for his father and getting Rabb’s brother out of Chechnya and Russia. Or how about Rabb’s first arrest for murder and the entire mess with Clark Palmer --"

"Webb _used_ Mac and Rabb’s personal involvement with Colonel O’Hara and Palmer --"

"Do you truly think that if Sarah had found out on her own about her Uncle stealing the Declaration of Independence, or if Rabb had figured out about his father, half-brother or Palmer’s obsessions, that your two wouldn’t have gotten involved anyway? By Clayton bringing them in, at least someone was looking out for them."

"But he never told them anything!" I growled. "It’s always his damned _Need To Know_. He used every one of those situations to his advantage, thereby increasing the risk --"

"Of course he did," Tim interrupted again with his own scowl. "He works for the fucking CIA, AJ! He uses CIA and State resources to tilt at _your_ windmills! There has to be some justification for not only the equipment and personnel, but also for his own personal involvement." A sudden sigh and I realized that although he wasn’t quite caught up with me, Tim was also sobering fast despite the scotch he still nursed.

"Not that his covering did any good once he took his stand on the Angel Shark families," Tim frowned. "Pruett used every instance of JAG involvement against Clayton; the Angel Shark was just the final nail in his coffin."

Since I wasn’t completely convinced that Webb hadn’t done much of the same thing to us over the years, I had no trouble believing a higher up had used Webb’s arrangements with JAG to his own use. On the other hand, being demoted for doing the right thing -- plus getting no acknowledgement from the ones who’d instigated it -- wasn’t right.

Before I could try to frame some sort of apology on JAG’s behalf, however, Tim gave another wry quirk of his lips and forged on.

"God how I hate the world we live in now. _Our_ jobs were Hell, yes, but at least we knew who our enemies were, even if we didn’t always understand their motivations. The Viet Cong, the Russians, even the Chinese followed the fundamental rules of war and espionage then, and still do to some degree. But every ambitious cleric or general or damn individual with a little bit of money or access can wage real terror against us now. We have the most advanced, best trained and overall, just the best military in the world, but despite your SEALs being created to be the first in even before the marines, to deal with those dirty little things that crop up in war, those SEALs rely on us to provide the intel. It is Clayton or someone like him who has to go in there with only a handful of cash and their wits, making deals with the very people we ask the SEALs and other special ops groups to neutralize. And these days we ask them to do so without the support of their own, since the CIA elite is more concerned with politics and budgets than their duties."

I bit my lip. More than once I had complained loud and long about the unreliability of such intel, both in Nam and in more recent operations. But for some reason I’d never really taken the time to consider that the bad info wasn’t always be because of incompetence. Overall, the CIA had a pretty damn good track record in getting at least some of the intel the military needed, especially given the current cutbacks and political _un_ correctness of their duties in the eyes of those who funded them. If any service was despised more than the military in our country, it was the CIA -- despised even by the military. The crisis of 9/11 had simply magnified the dichotomy; everyone wanted to be safe and protected, but couldn’t come to terms with how such protections might need be obtained.

I supposed the sheer number of people ... uncomfortable with Webb could also be considered a testament of just how well he performed a damn difficult job.

God, I must still be drunk if I was beginning to sympathize with Clayton Webb!

"Clayton’s an anomaly, you know," Tim continued, his smile turning wistful. "He generally plays the political game very well, but he does so only to keep doing his job -- doing his father’s job, I sometimes think, of protecting us all. There are times I can’t even look at him without seeing Neville standing before me --"

Tim broke off with a flush, and one more piece of the puzzle fit into place. Again my face must have given my thoughts away.

"Actually," and the wryness was back, "Actually, I was in love with _both_ Neville and Porter in those days, AJ. And yes, I know my feelings for Clayton are as much a result of that as they are for the person he is himself. But it doesn’t really matter, as I won’t -- can’t -- do anything about it." His laugh this time was harsh and he raised his empty glass for an empty gesture.

"I’m sure you thought chain of command relationships were damn near impossible in your service. But they’re nothing compared to how they’re dealt with by the Company. It doesn’t matter that I am no longer in command of or even remotely responsible for Clayton. That technically he is, well was, of a much higher rank than I am as a Deputy Director despite my near nomination to the top position years ago. Two CIA operatives can’t even be _friends_ …"

"Ten minutes to landing, gentlemen," the intercom suddenly squawked.

Tim took my cup from my hand and got up, moving only a little unsteadily in capping the scotch and storing everything we’d removed prior to landing. I didn’t remember even starting the last cup of coffee, much less finishing it, but he had nothing to empty and so I must have.

"With regard to your sexuality and the Company’s rules," I brought up as we both began strapping ourselves back in. "It isn’t because you’re interested in men, is it. You’re saying the CIA doesn’t care you’re homosexual?"

"Being outed doesn’t matter as long as they are the ones who are told first," came his shocking answer. "I suppose you could even go so far and say that the Company actively encourages bi-sexuality in their male agents," was the further shock.

Where I might have expected a laugh for my dumbfounded expression, instead I got a sad little smile.

"Sex is a weapon, AJ, whether simply by entrapment or because of something like rape. Over the years we’ve discovered it is the men who deal with it much more poorly than our women do when it’s used against us. Ego, I suppose. That ever fragile concern about how others view our masculinity. And so for the past twenty or so years, every field agent, straight, gay or bi, is expected to ... train himself so that sex isn’t useful against us, just like we do for the various drugs and questioning methods common to the enemy."

And what could I say to that? Pull any American off the street and ask them to evaluate the training demanded of those who sought to be SEALs, and nine out of ten would be disgusted or horrified, never mind that we all know the requirements beforehand. No doubt the CIA field personnel know exactly what was expected from them before ever being given the responsibility for such duty too, but...

I suppose the implications of such training were suddenly so uncomfortable because I could put the face of a ... friend to such an experience.

"Are you ... does this mean ... is Webb?"

Tim’s grin might have been at my expense, but I suppose I deserved it for my stammering.

"Are you asking on my behalf, or that of your people, AJ? Just one more box you can check as to whether Clayton is a threat?" But his expression gentled before I could respond.

"They’re not my secrets to expose, but I guess I’ve already given too much away. Yes Clayton has had male relationships as well with women. But you do not have worry on behalf of Colonel MacKenzie or Commander Rabb. I assure you, flirting and lust is not why he’s requested their help time and again."

I flushed and hoped I at least had the grace to look chagrined. The though of Webb trying to start something with either officer _had_ been my first concern. Not that I particularly cared any more about Webb being gay or bi than I had Tim. But I didn’t think I could handle Webb becoming even more of a regular around the JAG offices.

On the other hand, what was wrong with any of my people that someone like Webb might not be interested in them? Alright, Harriet and Bud were married, Sturgis sometimes too reserved and condescending. Tiner, of course, was way too young, and Gunny and Singer were both gone. But why _not_ Mackenzie or Rabb? Not that Webb could come between the two of them for any length of time any more than Renee or Brumby, Dalton, or even Jordan had, when all was said and done. But both officers were interesting, intelligent, damn attractive --

Despite knowing that Rabb is staunchly heterosexual, my brain insisted on picturing the two -- then the three -- of them together. I shuddered. The thought of Rabb and Webb together, all that ego …

"He’s with somebody, then?" I found myself asking and then cringing both at the rudeness, and at the thought that I was asking more about Clayton Webb’s love-life, whatever his sexual orientation. I _should_ have made some sort of noise about knowing Webb to be professional enough not to coerce my people’s participation for his personal gain or interest -- at least not beyond furthering his career.

Or not said anything at all.

Tim simply laughed however, and shook his head at my discomfort. "Not that I’m aware of. And he would have mentioned if he was serious about someone, if not to me then at least to Porter. Nor do you need to take umbrage on behalf of your people," he added as if aware of my last thoughts. "At one time he was interested in both Sarah and Harmon. But he’s not about to cut into the dance the two of them have going on, nor is he one to get involved with co-workers, even once removed. No, the true reason he keeps coming to JAG is, that beside Porter and myself, he can count on one hand the number of people he absolutely and blindly trusts. The Colonel and the Commander, maybe Roberts and probably you. That will forever be worth more than any bed partner or fumbled mission."

My frown at the choppiness of the landing deepened when I gave further thought to this final secret Tim had revealed. It was heartening to know that Webb trusted someone -- that he maybe even trusted me.

But did I really trust him?

"How can he work like that, Tim? How can he _live_ like that?" I asked instead.

Tim shrugged as we unclipped our seat restraints. "I don’t think Clayton ever envisioned doing something other than intelligence work, no matter how Porter tried to steer him elsewhere. Duty, redemption, patriotism?" Tim shrugged again and accepted his case from me before taking up his suit bag, then waiting as I grabbed my own duffle. "I guess just like for you and me, Clayton feels that there are few situations not worth enduring or sacrifices not worth making to protect out country."

The continued seriousness of our conversation had done wonders in sobering us both up, and we managed disembarking with no trouble; without even a raised eyebrow. One last advantage of traveling on the CIA’s dime, we were met on the tarmac by people from both Italy’s customs and our own Embassy. Our papers were stamped and then we were escorted to a car with a driver , never having to set foot in the terminal or to open our bags.

I had convinced Tim (after first convincing Francesca), that he could stay with us instead of having to bunk at the Consulate or try to find room at one of the overfilled hotels while his business kept him here in Gaeta. We’d landed on the last day of this year’s Fashion preview from the top designers and, indeed, we weren’t expecting to see Francesca until late in the evening since she was one of the designers being showcased.

Of course nothing happened as planned. After Tim and I made the drive into the countryside and settled into her villa, I had gotten an excited phone call from Francesca during the early hours of the evening, along with an apology. Not only had the show gone well for her, but she’d been contracted to design the entire wardrobe for some sort of charity Spring Bacchanalia being hosted by one of the better known local socialites. It was an opportunity even I knew she shouldn’t pass up even as the event was just a month away, necessitating her immediate presence and the likelihood that I would miss her entirely this trip.

Another phone called soon followed hers, this one on Tim’s cell phone, and suddenly I found myself alone. Something had or was falling apart, and he was being recalled back to Langley. I didn’t envy him adding jetlag to his hangover, and while I’d debated briefly in having another liquid dinner to go with my self pity, I realized I didn’t want to add anything more to my own hangover.

The debate to end my leave early lasted even less time than the one about drinking. I have managed to entertain myself for too many years to worry now about not finding things to do in a city like Gaeta. Beyond the possibility of catching Francesca for a meal at least one of my last four days, I wouldn’t really accomplish anything if I did leave now, other than undermining the faith I was showing the SecNav about my people. I had already planned two days home to catch up on personal and trivial matters; more than that and I would undoubtedly begin to feel sorry for myself again about Meredith, Sydney and her son -- about all of my failed relationships.

The steak tasted even better than had the hundred year old scotch. I spent the rest of the evening squaring away my belongings and doing some laundry, then decided on some quiet contemplation accompanied by some fine classical music. When I found myself closing my eyelids for reasons other than appreciation for the recordings, I headed for bed despite the relative earliness of the hour.

I shouldn’t have been surprised to awaken with the discovery that my subconscious didn’t need to be back in MacLean in order to fret. And I guess, given the nature of Tim’s and my talk on our flight, my mild worry for him and my ultimately greater concern for Brian, I shouldn’t have been any more surprised that my dreams had turned erotic. I suppose I could even choose to see waking up mid-orgasm to be a virtue at my age, instead of an embarrassment over my loss of control.

But I absolutely drew the line at accepting that it had been Clayton Webb as the dream partner who’d brought me to this state!

In the next moment, however, I knew I had other things to worry about. The wet dream hadn’t been what had awakened me, nor the rain that had started before I’d headed to bed. Thunder seemed to come from directly overhead, but even a raging storm wasn’t generally enough to disrupt my sleep. As I padded into the bathroom the clean myself up, I was also focusing intently in hopes of discovering the true reason.

Sure enough, in between the rumbles I heard the grinding of engine gears drawing nearer; someone was going to have to have a hell of a mechanic’s bill on what sounded to be a high performance car. While I guessed it was possible the variegates of trees and valleys and the odd atmospheric conditions here in the hills outside of Gaeta could transmit such sounds from the thoroughfare about a half a mile away, I was convinced that car was coming up the private road here to Francesca’s.

It wasn’t -- shouldn’t -- be her. Francesca had quite generously mentioned she’d been using her sedate and respectable sedan while she’d been in the city, thus leaving me her Lotus if I wanted to drive around. Not to mention that she knew I’d take away her keys if I ever found out she was mistreating _any_ car as the driver was mistreating this one. Or that I’d flat out tan her backside upon discovering she was driving so dangerously fast, especially in this type of weather.

The hair on the back of my neck started tingling. I’d left the lights off as I pulled on a pair of sweats, slipped into the boat shoes I used as slippers, and glided down the steps. While I would have preferred a side arm in hand, I knew only that Francesca was trained with one, not whether she owned one. Nor was I about to spend time searching for a hypothetical case and key when I could make due with a fire iron if necessary. Or my own damn hands.

Screeching brakes overrode the end of the next thunder’s peel. I had no real reason for suspicion; it wasn’t as if there were many houses nearby to ask for assistance if someone was in trouble. The road to Francesca’s was well marked down on the thruway, unlike most of the other private access roads that dotted the mountainside. Additionally, Tim had called me from his plane just hours earlier, so I knew it wasn’t something likely tied into him, and while I might be military; I was still primarily a lawyer in most people’s eyes.

But I could see little from the front window other than the pounding rain. No evidence of the car, and wouldn’t someone requiring a phone or other assistance drive up to the house instead of stopping out of view?

I waited, giving only a passing thought to calling local authorities in advance of discovering what was going on. I could handle myself; surviving punching out of an F-14 and fighting off a pack of wolves in the snow had proved that had I ever been worried about my age. And if this was nothing more than a sound anomaly due to the confluence of mountains, valleys and the storm, I didn’t need the hassles of calling them out here for nothing. While not as bad as it might have been in, say, France or Germany, I had little doubt the Italian authorities still wouldn’t take advantage of an American embarrassment right now.

Another minute passed without anyone knocking on the door, without anymore sounds at all, other than the rain and thunder. Just when I’d decided that I must have indeed heard one of the neighbors as if they weren’t a mile or more away and elected to return to bed, I heard the sound of glass breaking, then a muffled thunk.

Not a window pane being shattered by a large rock or even a muffled fist unless it had been from upstairs behind one of the closed doors. Which wasn’t likely; there weren’t trees close enough to be used for makeshift access to the house, and the garage for Francesca’s cars was detached. As was the workshop building she used as a hot house and for storage.

Something ground level -- the car?

It was only as I jerked the door open and took a step forward that I remembered Francesca had a security light linked to a motion sensor that flooded the front entry. Except I wasn’t suddenly framed or blinded by anything until a flare of lightning caught me. And by then I was already moving from my position more by instinct than reason in discovering it had been the security light that had shattered.

In that split second I’d seen that something lay atop the glass shards scattered before the front door, something that it wasn’t a rock. But it was only as I -- perhaps foolishly -- grabbed for it that I identified exactly what it was. A gun. A 10mm Glock if I wasn’t mistaken, loaded with a clip holding most of its 15 rounds I found out in the next burst of lightning.

If this was all an elaborate plot to frame me for murder, my recklessness had already given them my fingerprints. Yet, if they wanted to give me a _loaded_ weapon …

The near constant rumble of thunder would mask the sounds of someone approaching, but it would also mask my own, and I had no intention of remaining by the door. In a subsequent lightning burst, I’d noted that I still couldn’t see a car, but in another, just seconds later and after I’d gained fifty or so yards from the house, I found it. The car had no lights on, no headlights, console, nor the interior overhead which should have been, as the driver-side door had been left open. Someone had taken deliberate care to not be noticed.

And to not silhouette me here or at the front of the house.

I was beginning to rethink my assumptions regarding Tim’s departure. The only other likely possibility of someone who’d go to this much effort on my behalf would have been one of the guys from the reunion. But they, like my own staff, hadn’t been told I was going on to Italy before going home.

Somehow I wasn’t surprised to see that the back window of the car was mostly missing, or that several bullet holes had cracked the front windshield. The body in the passenger’s seat was a bit of a shock, and I had to wait until the next flash of lightning to confirm that it wasn’t anyone I recognized. I didn’t have to touch anything to know that he was dead; the bullet hole through his temple and the open and sightless eyes were telling enough.

As was the fact that it was quite unlikely one of the bullets that had slammed into the car was the cause of death. From angle of entry, it was more likely delivered from the driver…

Bloodstains soaked not only the body, but also the left side of the driver seat and covered the stick shift. The grinding of the gears was now explained and the driver had my grudging respect that that had been the worst that had happened. It had to have been a shoulder wound; any lower down the arm and the driver wouldn’t have been able to manage the shifting.

I took a longer look during the next lightning strike; if I was right about a shoulder being hit, the driver was several inches shorter than Tim.

And all at once I knew, even though it should have been impossible and made absolutely no sense. But surely the damn cliché that my life had passed into would allow no other answer.

"Webb?" I called out perhaps louder than would have been prudent given all his precautions to keep us both hidden. On the other hand, nothing less than a shout would be heard above the storm and I wasn’t keen on coming up on him -- on anyone in this situation -- in surprise. Additionally, the Lamborghini had only two seats. So while no doubt some threat did exist to warrant all of the effort, it seemed likely that it was still a few minutes and a few miles away, most likely in the guise of those who’d fired on the car from the outside.

"Dammit, Webb, were are you?" I yelled even louder.

A pen light blinked at me.

Fuck.

Confirming the worst of my expectations, it was indeed Clayton Webb.

In the next few seconds of visibility with the lightning beginning to sheet in regular intervals, I could see that he looked a bit battered around the edges, but was mobile and alert, with a gun of his own in hand. What I didn’t see was any look of dismay or apology as he slowly moved from the bushes, not my direction, but toward my daughter’s storage shed. It didn’t help my growing resentment and anger that I was making particular note of the condition of Webb’s shirtless body -- not the darkened areas that were likely blood or bruises, but instead the surprising level of fitness being exhibited. Something I’d never previously noticed hidden under his typical three piece suits.

Never wanted or allowed myself to notice.

We were both soaked, in obvious trouble and I was damn cold. Yet all I could think about was the fucking wet dream I’d just had, and how reality just might surpass fantasy.

"Just how close behind are they?" My words came out harsher than I’d intended, but I doubted Webb would think anything of it. Anger, after all, was my usual reaction to seeing him.

"Five minutes, maybe a few more. But I didn’t loose them; they’re following a transmitter lodged somewhere in the car." His voice sounded as ragged as he’d looked, but held more resignation than anything I would categorize as fear.

"Well that’s damned inconvenient, Webb," I drawled with damn little sympathy, despite feeling it.

Although I don’t believe I’d ever seen Webb look frantic, in the next flicker of lightning I could see something akin to that on his face, instead of the relief or even alarm I’d half expected as I stalked toward him.

"Tim was supposed to be here too."

Now that was purely defensive, was very much the Webb who well remembered I’d busted his nose because of another of his fool stunts. But even as he attempted to straighten to his full height -- which was still several inches below mine and would have been wasted on me regardless as I don’t do intimidate -- his eyes flicked past me, toward the house instead of beyond the abandoned car or down the road from which his pursuers would be likely to come.

Not completely sure why, I began to explain. "Tim’s --"

"Not here, obviously."

I guess it was, but I’d decided to cut him a little slack and wasn’t to pleased to have it so coldly thrown back in my face, like somehow Tim’s departure was my fault. That the two of them had made some sort of arrangement to meet here -- or to come here in case something went wrong just pissed me off. I could have been told; I would have offered, but no, like normal, I was being used, and --

"Dammit, so was Francesca!" I roared and stepped close enough that he’d have to look up at me to meet my eyes. "How dare you involve my daughter, you son of a bitch!"

"You mean she didn’t take the commis -- Dammit, AJ, if you take a swing at me, I swear I’ll fucking shoot you!"

The swearing stopped me cold. Like with Tim, such language was out of character. Webb’s warning hadn’t come out of fear or bravado, however; now that I was practically breathing on him, I could make out that someone’s fists had gotten there before the threat of mine.

And had done a pretty thorough job of it. Combined with the bullet he’d taken, I was actually surprised he was still on his feet, much less so coherent.

Again I was surprised at my level of sympathy; he’d just implied the rush job Francesca had accepted had been contrived and pre-arranged too. But I could appreciate that he -- or Tim -- had taken the effort to keep her away, and so --

Webb stumbled as he tried to back away from me, only managing to keep himself upright by catching hold of the nearest window lintel with the bloodied shoulder and arm that not even the amount of rain pounding into us had managed to clean entirely. In his other hand the gun was not pointed in my direction.

I shoved my own gun through the waistband of my sweats at my back. "Jesus, Webb. Let’s get you taken care of and out of here before they show up." It didn’t really matter who _they_ were, I might not like Webb very much, but I knew I’d like whoever was chasing him even less.

"Can’t," and he was pulling away from the wall, away from me too again, and instead was working his way back toward the workshop’s door.

"What do you mean, can’t?"

But he was ignoring me -- ignoring my question at least, although he did turn toward me. The slow look he directed up and down my body as he swayed in place brought a flush that I was damn glad he didn’t notice as darkness again surrounded us.

"You don’t have the key, do you?"

I didn’t have anything with me, actually; the sweats didn’t have pockets. It was a good thing I hadn’t shut the front door behind me as I’d raced through it, in fact. The lock was automatic unless a bolt was thrown which I had _not_ done.

"Can’t you just break into it like you did the first time?" I responded in kind to his accusing tone.

I was making an assumption, but given his obvious interest in getting into the workshop instead of some place more defensible, I had to think that it wasn’t him they were after. At least not first. Whatever it was they wanted more, he must have hidden here a day or two before.

"They didn’t let me keep any of my toys, sorry."

Not a real apology, of course. Webb didn’t apologize.

But it appeared the acerbity might be warranted. Other than my clinical assumptions about the bullet wound, I hadn’t yet given thought to what Webb might have been involved with prior to his arrival here; that he might just as well been shot prior to when he’d sustained his other visible injuries as after. Shoeless and well as shirtless, I was guessing the race here had been the end of something involuntary.

"You’ve managed pretty well in spite of that," I felt I should acknowledge, though I couldn’t keep the gruffness out of my tone. I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised; this was the same man who’d run around on board an empty Japanese freighter for three days with a bullet in his leg to keep a prototype superconductor from falling into the wrong hands.

Before either of us could manage anything further, a new squeal of brakes and the sounds of tires fishtailing into gravel came to us. The locus of the storm was finally moving off and the steady cascade of thunder, as well as the lightning, was decreasing.

"Fuck," we both said, this time.

Webb jerked back toward the door. I didn’t need another flash of lightning to see him waver, however, and I reached out automatically although I almost wasn’t fast enough when I paused before realizing I needed to let him keep his gun arm free.

We both ignored the sound he made when I grabbed the arm with the bullet hole.

"We’re going to have to take them out, AJ."

Them, not it. Right, the pursuers.

Though also breathless, the certainty underlying Webb’s tone -- either from arrogance or assumption of my participation -- grated. I was reminded there was already one body needing to be explained, as did the reasons behind Webb doing the killing instead of whoever was coming up the access road. I had other questions too, but there wasn’t any time.

This was exactly what I hated about Webb. There was _never_ enough time or information when he was involved.

"How many are there likely to be?" I growled, only registering that he’d tensed up in my hold upon feeling some of the stiffness leave at the question I did ask. He shrugged from my grip but didn’t really move away.

"There had been five -- no six when De Luca got me out. I’m pretty sure he shot one of them, maybe two, but …"

"Close enough," I growled again. "Significantly more than us. We’ll have to take a couple of them upon arrival. Then I’ll make sure I’m seen before fading into the trees along the west side --"

Webb gave a quick shake of his head and damn near fell again. Concern/embarrassment/frustration -- all of my feelings regarding the entire situation ignited my temper again and I grabbed hold of his arm none to gently this time.

"Dammit, Webb, I do have some experience in this type of action --"

"I a-assure you, AJ, I’d be more than happy t-to let you relive your glory days," he hissed back just as harshly and this time took a step away from me as he wrenched himself free of my grip. "B-but I can’t get t-to the disc anymore, and it has t-to get back t-to Langley! I’ll lead them off while y-you recover it."

Well, now I knew what they were after, even if I didn’t know what was on it. I ignored the dig for now, but thought I’d be more than happy to remind him once a SEAL, always a SEAL at a later time.

Hopefully his doctor discounted for repeat business.

"Where is the damned thing?" I didn’t want to think about the prospects of failure in him taking on four or five motivated thugs. Or that he basically planned to sacrifice himself so I might escape with the intelligence.

"There are several boxes of Christmas decorations up along the middle r-rafter. It’s hidden amongst the one full of garland and t-tinsel."

"We’re talking about a computer disc? A cd?"

I hated him knowing that Francesca had Christmas stuff packed away, when to the best of my knowledge she’d spent all of her Christmases at her mother’s in Milan save for the one she’d managed to spend with me back in McLean a couple of years ago.

"Actually a m-mini disc, but yes," Webb answered before releasing and slamming home again the clip to his gun. We both only had the guns he’d managed to salvage from wherever, and no additional ammo.

"The d-disc contains the security protocols and staging options for our build-up along the T-turkish border into Iraq."

That was a bit of information I probably shouldn’t have gotten. Of course, now I also wanted to know how the CIA had lost it in the first place. Or if they’d gotten hold of it from someone else who had lost it. And whether Webb was responsible for it being in play at all; he had risked greater and lesser things for a desired outcome in the past, and I still wasn’t sure this was only about that intel.

Turkey and Italy were a long way from South America.

Well, maybe not so far, if tracking along one of the drug routes.

I spared a moment’s satisfaction that Turkey had finally agreed to let us stage our troops; the last I’d heard they were still waffling about granted us the rights, and State was having to promise them things I wasn’t sure the Senate would go for. Whether the agreement would hold with the operational plans having become compromised, however...

I didn’t bother asking Webb whether he could handle what was coming, or with telling him to be careful. He could still hold a gun, and sometimes that had to be enough. I knew that once I had the disc, he’d be expecting me to join in only if I was certain I could still get away if things went south. It’s what he would do were our positions reversed. And while I wanted to, I actually couldn’t blame him for such a priority. This was worth more than any individual’s life.

But I was also a firm believer in the SEAL credo of never leaving a man behind.

While I used my gun to break the window next to us above its lock, Webb moved away, using the ground and tree cover as well as the longer periods of darkness to put distance and darkness between us. The rain had slackened, which wasn’t necessarily an advantage. But not having the lightning highlighting everything every few seconds would be.

It wasn’t as if we couldn’t track the enemy’s approach since they were treating their car even worse than Webb had his.

Climbing up onto the rafters was actually easier than fitting through the window I’d chosen for entry. Unfortunately I couldn’t read what was in the surprising number of stored boxes, but simply trying to lift any of them with just a few fingers pretty much let me know where the ones with the Christmas supplies started. Then it was a matter of opening them and reaching in to identify the contents of the lightest ones by feel.

Webb was going to have to replace more than a window after all was said and done.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught the headlights of the oncoming vehicle moving across the open space below me. More squealed brakes, then the sounds of rapid gunfire from an automatic weapon. Several single shots followed, and an explosion; one of the cars’ gas tank, I assumed and before I could mutter about someone’s damn luck, my brain chose at that moment to remember that Webb had not only participated in the Olympics according to Roberts and Rabb, but that he’d come close to medaling in the Modern Pentathlon -- which included target shooting as one of the five events.

Webb had certainly given them a target. And given me a light source, once I dropped back down to the shed’s floor and looked out. He sure as Hell better be praying the ground was saturated enough that the fire wouldn’t spread to Francesca’s house or garage, however.

And I just had to hope Webb’s action hadn’t been more to get rid of the evidence of the man he killed.

At least I didn’t need to climb back out through the window. I tucked the disc under the elastic at my right ankle then eased the lock on the door before opening it a crack. I was far enough away that the fire wouldn’t silhouette my arrival; it also looked like Webb had managed to draw off most of the pursuers, although one had remained by their car on watch, his weapon slack in his hands.

Well, that made it easier for me; I wouldn’t have to shoot and give away that there was someone else working with Webb.

I took down the backup man with a clean snap of his neck, electing at the last moment not to try a sleeper hold since we were outnumbered and outgunned. It would also be easier to explain or eliminate bodies than hide prisoners.

Webb hadn’t said anything about needing one left alive.

The storm had finally ended and the clouds were beginning to break up, revealing a waning moon that still provided enough illumination to highlight the positions of four more men stalking through the wooded part of the property. I thought I recognized one of them from an intelligence briefing on al Qaeda operatives, and so felt a little more secure about the killings, although I had a moment’s pause when I also recognized the local CIA Sector Chief whom I’d had to debrief with after our rescue of Tim four years back. As he was the one gesturing to the al Qaeda man and who took the next shot at Webb, however …

I sighted on the terrorist. Before I got my shot off, he fired indiscriminately through one of his own allies when Webb popped out to shoot back at the rogue CIA Chief. I was the only one who hit my target, although my sudden arrival pulled the focus of the last two standing, giving us both clear shots.

For a few long moments we stayed in our crouched positions, listening but hearing no evidence of there being any more.

"There was one left --"

"Taken care of."

Webb nodded, but still made no move and so I closed the distance between us and began checking to make sure our targets were at least no longer a threat, if not actually dead. That was only the CIA man, but Webb had hit him twice and he didn’t look capable of doing anything other than groaning and bleeding out. Even if it had been intentional, I wasn’t about to waste my time doing anything more than ensure he didn’t have access to any weapons should I be wrong and he prove as resilient as Webb.

Who was now managing to stumble my direction by the time I’d gathered up the guns. But I could see the adrenalin draining from his body. I was feeling the after-action fatigue myself, as well as my age. I simply ignored Webb when he asked for help with the CIA man, and was there to pick him back up when he overdid it trying to drag the other back toward the fire’s light himself.

Webb’s subsequent bitching as I practically had to carry him back into the house had me thinking I might have saved the wrong one. I finally had enough and swept him closer, bending down to kiss him just to shut him up.

In years past I’m sure I bragged about kissing someone senseless. This was the first time I had actually managed to do so. But, of course, this wasn’t really something I should be taking pride in. On the other hand, having Webb faint in my arms was a better response than him trying to take a swing at me.

I had no idea whether there might be yet another carload of terrorists sent after him, but figured it wouldn’t hurt to presume that there were. This meant getting Webb patched up quickly and then getting us both out of here. There was also the matter of the six bodies, but even if Webb wasn’t out of it, I didn’t think he’d be calling on the local CIA office to clean up.

I was working on the assumption that Webb would at least be getting backing from Washington. Hopefully they’d divert Tim and order his flight to turn around and return to take charge. But in the meantime, I didn’t want to take the chance of the local authorities stumbling onto the scene and drawing Francesca into the situation. This left me little option but to dialed up our local Support base and asked to speak to the CO about getting a few MPs out here.

Surely Webb had diplomatic immunity since he also worked for State?

I didn’t know the CO, but he was Navy and only had one star, so without having to explain too many of the specifics I got him to detail a cadre of five, with my assurance that someone from Washington would be in contact soon to take over the responsibility of dealing with the locals. I also warned him that I wouldn’t be there when the MPs arrived, and that there was a possibility of further hostiles. I then asked him to see that his men took care to limit any further collateral damage to the unfortunate bystander’s property without exactly explaining that it was my daughter’s.

After another quick call to leave a message for Francesca to insure that she didn’t come home under any circumstances for several days and a promise to call later with an explanation for everything, I then turned my attention back to Webb.

Before making the calls, I had dumped him on the bed I’d been using. We both needed to dry off and get into warmer clothes, but I knew nothing I had would fit him since I not only had several inches on him, but also probably a good thirty pounds. He had to have luggage somewhere -- unless it had been in the trunk of the car he’d blown up. But I didn’t think going back to a hotel would be a good idea yet, even if I knew for sure that he’d been staying in one.

While I looked through Francesca’s clothes for something I could throw Webb into, I debated whether it would be better to head for the Base ourselves, or for the Consulate in Naples. I had my passport and military ID, but had brought no uniform with me on this trip. Too, I doubted I would find Webb’s passport in his pant’s pockets, which meant we’d need to at least contact the Consulate or even the Embassy in Rome to establish his credentials. Likely he’d been staying in one of those two cities in the first place instead of here.

Webb was already stirring as I came back into the bedroom. So I’d probably get some of my answers relatively soon and be able to make better plans. It was probably also a good idea to see just how bad off he was before choosing a destination; if he needed a doctor quickly, the Base was closest.

Once again I eased Webb over my shoulder, hoping he hadn’t sustained serious damage to his stomach or ribs though I had noted the bruising there earlier. I also kept him bundled in the bedspread; besides keeping him warm, I was going to have to gather up anything that had blood traces before we departed and so I might as well start now.

Not keen on calling attention to our presence by turning on many lights, I moved us into Francesca’s bathroom as it had no windows. What it did have was two closets tucked off to the side, each of which was larger than most of the billets I’d ever bunked in, and the room itself was larger than my current bedroom at home. In addition to a shower that held four comfortably and a spa tub for six that I figured I should probably ask my daughter about one of the these days, the vanity counter was sturdier, wider and of a better height for me to work on Webb than either of the backless chairs I’d already moved out of the way, or the bed I’d just left.

It was only as I was setting Webb into the corner formed by the higher sink, the vanity counter and the mirror behind, that I realized I should have pulled off his pants while he’d still been lying down. I’d found a set of oversized sweats in one of Francesca’s bureaus in the far closet that I thought would do as replacements and had already peeled out of my own sodden ones, placing the disc and a two of the guns near a pile of towels I’d also liberated from one of the closets. Found no shoes or underwear that would fit Webb, of course, but I figured a couple of pairs of my socks would suffice for the first and we just wouldn’t worry about the second.

I’d also started up the shower to warm both the water and the room, yet as I pulled the spread from around Webb’s shoulders and got my first really good look, I realized showering would be out of the question.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Webb, what in the world did you do?" I grunted at the sight of the gunshot wound. I’d seen my share of messes in Nam and beyond, even taken one or two serious ones myself, but my mind reeled from what I was seeing.

And from the fact that I was being answered.

"They were worried about b-blood loss and so poured some gun powder in, then set if off. Guess they saw R-rambo a few too many times?"

I said a few words that would have made my buddies from the Teams blush.

"I’ll have t-to remember a couple of those for the next time." Webb gave me a wry smile, but didn’t bother to open his eyes. His voice was still slurred, stuttering and disturbingly hoarse -- from more than just exhaustion and strain I now had to think.

Burns spread down both sides of his shoulder and I guessed the technique had been applied a multiple of times.

"Can you keep yourself upright for a couple of minutes?" Treating this was going to take more than the meager supplies I’d found in the medicine chest. I knew Francesca had a well-stocked first aid kit somewhere, along with a set of evacuation and emergency supplies.

Webb simply nodded and opened his eyes into slits. He turned his head far enough to get a sense of where he was, saw the disc, then let them close again before slumping further back against the mirror. I brought the spread back up to cover and warm his undamaged shoulder before stepping back and closing my eyes myself while I tried to visualize what I knew of the villa and Francesca’s habits and personality.

Flooding, mud slides and power outages were the most common threats out here; the first two could happen with little warning and so I concluded she’d have her evacuation bags near the front door. After 9/11 it had been easy to impress upon my subordinates the necessity of such a kit that _I’d_ first learned the value of during a stint out at Coronado and San Diego after my first earthquake. I had been inordinately pleased to find out Francesca had her own before I’d asked her about it.

Although I stopped to pull on a new pair of pants, I hadn’t thought it had taken me that long to find the first aid box and return. But Webb had managed to get himself down from the counter and out of his own pants. The sweats I’d left out were in hand, but that hand was currently gripping the counter just as tightly as it was the material, and the taut lines of an even tauter body showed the effort it was taking for him to stay upright.

Equestrian riding seemed to be damn good for sculpting calves, thighs and one mighty fine ass.

What a time to figure out most of my antagonism over the years toward Webb might stem from latent attraction.

"Idiot."

By the stiffening of his body, I knew Webb had heard me despite me speaking under my breath, and was assuming I had referred to him -- which was just fine considering the alternative. I strode quickly across the room and grabbed him under his elbow before prying the sweats from his fingers. I then crouched down and, keeping my eyes firmly on his feet -- which I could see had sustained some damage themselves from running through one of the undeveloped areas of Francesca’s property -- I somewhat brusquely helped him step into the sweats. I needed to rest them low on his hips; after seeing the damage to his shoulder, I’d pretty much neglected to examine the bruises I’d earlier noted dotting his torso, and now noted they also spread across the small of his back.

From their darkened coloration, this hadn’t just happened in the last few hours.

I probed more dispassionately than I actually felt, and wasn’t surprised when he flinched even under my lightest touches. At least the bruises looked to be from fists instead of from something like a bat or a bar, and when we got him turned around, his front didn’t look that much worse although they’d obviously spent more time here.

"Nothing’s broken," he exhaled as I backed off and regained my upright position. Webb’s certainty spoke of experience and I agreed, based on my own. But that didn’t mean that that entire region didn’t -- or wouldn’t -- hurt like the devil though.

"They were mainly having f-fun. They expected the drugs to do the actual work of getting the information from m-me," he continued and let me help him take a seat back on the edge of the counter. "Maybe they were just saving the m-more … extreme stuff for later."

I steadfastly ignored the dark hair thickening and trailing into the lowered waistband, as well as the sharp planes of his hips just below where my fingers were currently resting. I even managed to remove my hands without acting like a scalded or embarrassed adolescent, keeping them and myself steady as I shook out a trio of Demerol and filled a glass of water. (I would have to remember to ask Francesca why she had Demerol on hand.)

But he shook his head when I offered them. "Can’t chance the drug interaction," he explained before I could question what I’d immediately figured as misplaced stubbornness given the circumstances and extent of his injuries, in taking someone else’s prescription.

I snapped my eyes up to his at that, and looked him over very carefully. His pupils were dilated more than the dim light warranted, and the body tremors I’d accounted to being cold were now pretty much contained to his hands.

"Scopolamine or Pentothol?" Not that I knew much about any of the so-called truth serums other than they didn’t really work well if someone was trained in lying. Like Webb.

Webb looked away for a moment, but I decided he was more trying to remember than escape my scrutiny since he answered readily enough. "Probably P-pentothol, given that al Fasi also shot me up with some sort of amphetamine."

At my look of utter confusion, he gave a wry smile.

"There is a growing b-belief that shooting someone up first with something like Pentothol to relax them, then a f-follow-up with a stimulant prevents the person being questioned from having the t-time or wherewithal to lie. Also, I have a m-mild adverse allergic reaction Scopolamine; I don’t just g-go out under low doses, but I stay out. Which d-didn’t happen, unfortunately. The allergy isn’t s-something even Vicente should have access to from my profile, b-but who knows at this point."

I could feel my own throat tightening in sympathy to the sound of pain in his, but found myself more frowning at the lack of any emotion in Webb’s words. Had any of this happened to me, I would have been ready to kill the ones who’d performed the interrogation. But I suppose he could just be coming down from whatever chemical cocktail they’d given him, that he really wasn’t that stoic about what had been done to him.

Or maybe he was? Some of Tim’s recent words came back to mind.

"Just how many times has something like this happened to you, Webb?" I asked gruffly and busied myself with sorting through the bandages then working on his feet first, figuring I might be making it easier for him to answer by not keeping his eye.

Not that I was sure who I was really trying to make it easier for.

"More times than I like to think about," came the tired response. "Enough t-times that taking a desk or training position is looking better each year. But hey, I guess I have to thank de Luca for showing up when he did t-to get me out of there, even if it was at Vicente’s suggestion in hopes that I’d c-confide in de Luca. No doubt I would have picked up a f-few more burns in decidedly uncomfortable places, lost a few nails or my v-virtue next."

The cavalier attitude wasn’t any better than the stoicism to my mind, but on the other hand, how _should_ one react to torture the third or seventh or tenth time?

And why had I never thought about something like this with regard to Webb before? I’d worked with CIA field operatives and agents in the past, probably knew more details about the operations Webb had dragged Mac and Rabb into than would make him _or_ his bosses happy. But for some reason I’d never really credited him as being one, not in the full sense of what that entailed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d fixed on his State department cover instead of acknowledging what he’d have to be capable of in order to rise to a position of Deputy Director.

Not a bureaucrat and pencil pusher at all, but James fucking Bond!

"What’s wrong, AJ, didn’t think I had it in m-me?"

"Frankly, yes," I admitted as I stood again and turned my attention to his shoulder. The best I’d be able to do here is clean and pack it, then bind it to his chest until we could get him to the Base doctor. It’d be easy enough to slip on the pullover sweatshirt and just not bother with the one sleeve.

I finally met his gaze again. "You are very good at misdirecting people and letting them think the worst of you."

It was his turn to look down in discomfort for a brief moment. "A useful t-tool and occupational hazard." The subsequent lift of his chin was challenge as well as defensive. "Most people are happy to believe I work for State."

"Or that you don’t really know how to handle a gun and are just a lucky shot?" I tried to lighten things, flashing back on Mac’s less than flattering account of that early mission in Columbia, of how Webb hadn’t even known how to release the safety.

_I_ should have known something was up when during our unsanctioned rescue of Tim, he’d hit the dead center of Teresa Marcello’s forehead even though it had been his first kill.

Webb tried to shrug, or maybe he was only trying to get away from what I was needing to do. The burns, especially from hours or even a day or more ago, had not kept the wound from breaking open, given what he’d subjected himself to afterward. At least the blood was merely oozing now instead of flowing copiously as it must have been to so saturate the car.

"Yeah, well, p-people also have a tendency to see what they want to believe, instead of the hidden truths."

I looked over to his face at that, no longer sure that he was speaking of our past, or even our current situation with the disc. That he was necessarily speaking of himself, either.

I guess he remembered my kissing him. And that my expression gave away my thoughts.

"Remind me to kill T-tim when I get back."

I couldn’t help but grin in response to the utter lack of heat -- or threat -- in his tone. To the sudden liveliness in his eyes.

What the Hell, I could always claim I was just trying to distract him from the pain with this one.

"SEAL, huh?" was all Webb said, however, after I pulled back from the kiss he most definitely participated in this time.

"James Bond, huh?" I responded in turn before closing the distance between us for another. "Don’t be thinking I’m going to play your Bond girl, however," I then growled into lips that were already nicely swelling.

He laughed and let me steady him back on his feet after we got his sweatshirt in place. "That could only be Rabb, AJ."

"Not Mac?" I had to ask.

He shook his head. "She’s certainly got the body for the swimsuit and a face almost as pretty as Rabb’s, but she’s much too intelligent for the role."

I could only nod to that; I relied on and respected them both, would even admit upon occasion that they were two of the best attorneys I’d ever known. But Mac really _did_ have better judgment than Rabb, except perhaps, in the matters of relationships. _That_ was something they _both_ failed in. Especially when it came to their feelings for one another.

On the other hand, who was I -- or was Webb -- to talk, when it came to failed relationships?

Even now, I couldn’t see anything long term coming out of where it seemed we might be heading. Not that such a thought was going to keep me from at least giving it a try. Mac had once said she thought there was something loveable about Clayton Webb. I hadn’t seen it, still wasn’t really sure. But I already found out this trip that I knew very, very little about our resident spy and so, indeed, Mac just might be right.

If nothing else, there was something irresistible about him.

Simply, fucking, irresistible.

\--Finis--


End file.
